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<title>Why Do They Call it a Marriage of Convenience? You're the Least Convenient Person I've Ever Met by lady_eliot_writes</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25168744">Why Do They Call it a Marriage of Convenience? You're the Least Convenient Person I've Ever Met</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_eliot_writes/pseuds/lady_eliot_writes'>lady_eliot_writes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Witcher Outlander AU [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Arranged Marriage, Calanthe is the english, Elves, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Meetings, First Time, Future Jaskier travels back in time to Witcher Universe, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, No Homophobia, No sexual assault, Not a Crossover, Or Is It?, Outlander AU, Strangers to Lovers, Student Jaskier | Dandelion, Time Travel, Witchers in kilts? in my stories? it's more likely than you think, because he's a fucking bastard, elves and other magical creatures are the scots, it's my world and i wont have it, no Captain Randall, rebellion/uprising but really that's just background, very lite politics, we are using the plot of outlander as inspiration</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 05:47:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,457</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25168744</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_eliot_writes/pseuds/lady_eliot_writes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Grad Student Jaskier falls through the standing stones on Belleteyn and is transported back in time to the world of The Witcher. Saved from the clutches of Calanthe's forces by Elven rebels, he is taken to Dol Blathanna, where he has to prove he isn't a Cintran Spy. Oh, and he has to figure out how to get back home before he does something he can't take back.... like, marry the hot but very grumpy witcher who saved his life.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Witcher Outlander AU [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1823296</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>183</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Belleteyn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The plot of Outlander is used as a general outline but we will not be going through it beat by beat. That means far less political shit and no sexual assault (seriously DG leans on that way too heavily as a story driver), also I will be picking and choosing what exactly we keep and don't keep but you best believe we're getting marriage of convenience and then domestic fluff at Kaer Morhen.  I don't want to commit to a length or an update schedule but I will do my best to keep it moving.</p><p> </p><p>TW/CW for a brief mention of blood/ injury/ ritual self-harm in this chapter (Jaskier scrapes his palm falling, a priestess slices her palm with a knife, blood is used in a ritual but it is like 3-4 sentences throughout the chapter and not graphic)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He knew that Belleteyn was as bad a time as any to be wandering around the woods alone at night, but Jaskier was perhaps a little foolish and certainly a little drunk. </p><p>It was late, and a wiser man would be in bed. He could be tangled with the lovely dark haired girl who had slipped her number into the pocket of his jeans, or the bright eyed lad who had been feeding the bonfire, blush riding high on his cheeks. Yes, it would certainly be wiser, but Jaskier had never been accused of being a wise man. There would always be another Belleteyn, always more young people drunk on the sweetness of almost summer and willing to fall into bed with a handsome graduate student with clever fingers and an even cleverer tongue.</p><p>The festival had been tempting, and had he been but a few years younger, he would be halfway to an orgy by now. Belleteyn brought that out in people, a phenomenon that he had well documented in one of his more controversial published works on ancient pagan traditions. This town’s festival in particular was known for being rowdier than most, situated on the edge of the world. Not truly, but in name and local legend, and at the edge of a vast cliff face that peered over miraculously untouched forest. </p><p>He could still hear the revelry back towards the town, but the crackling of logs, delighted drunken screaming and pitchy music grew quieter as he drifted off the path into a clearing filled with flowers. It was too dark to identify them properly but they smelled strongly enough to tickle the back of his sinuses and overwhelm the scent of cooking meat that hung on the breeze. The festival at the end of the world was far from winding down but the story that the old woman wove over the flames still echoed in his ears. A circle of standing stones, not an hours walk from the village and shrouded in mystery. She spoke of druids and witches and other things long dead, spoke of sacrifices, blood, sex, and intrigue. He felt the buzz of music in his fingertips, desperate to transcribe the story into song.  He hummed slightly to himself, weaving through the underbrush as he went. </p><p>His foot caught in a root and he tumbled, catching himself against the rough bark of a tree. The bark cut into his skin, leaving behind a smear of dark blood. His palms stung in the cool night air. </p><p>Ahead he could see lights dancing through the trees. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, but they did not disappear. Freeing his feet from the tangle of roots, he crept forward, taking care to keep as quiet as possible. As he got closer he picked up the thread of rhythmic drumming that made the air feel like it was alive.</p><p>The dancing lights belonged to torches in the hands of women of all ages, swirling through the dark in the centre of the circle of stones. He watched a woman without a torch approach the largest stone and gently lay a bundle at the foot of it. She drew a large sharp implement from her belt and decisively sliced down into her palm. She did not flinch. The woman closed her hand, dark blood welling up and sliding down her arm. She passed her hand over the bundle, fat drops of blood falling into the grass as the drumming stopped.</p><p>The ache in his lungs alerted him to the fact that his breath had caught in his throat. He forced a breath through the tightness in his chest and waited. A horn sounded far away and the women with the torches began to retreat, moving quietly in pairs back towards the town. </p><p>The woman who had placed the bundle knelt for a moment, placing her sticky, dark palm against the bundle quickly and decisively.  She whispered something but the wind carried it off before Jaskier could hear. She rose and slowly left the circle. The sounds of travel through the underbrush faded and disappeared but the place seemed no less alive for the lack of humans. The world held its breath but for a moment, and Jaskier carefully picked his way closer.</p><p>Just outside the ring of stones, there were flowers were strewn about, patches of grass scorched and extinguished, and the remnants of what he could only guess was a roast lamb. The stink of stale wine lingered. He slipped through the archway nearest him, not touching anything as he went. In front of him, several paces away was the bundle, perfectly still in the grass. It wasn’t large, would fit easily under one arm and a part of him was afraid to see what lay in the grass. His feet left dents in the thick, lush grass, overlapping the concentric circles stamped down by the dancers. </p><p>As he drew closer he could see that the bundle was not one item. Several bunches of herbs and flowers; a skin of wine; a jar of dark honey; a rabbit’s foot; and a peculiar rock, smooth and the size of a fist. The woman’s blood was nearly dried on the offerings. The largest stone seemed to shimmer where it stood. It was just barely noticeable and he could only catch it out of the corner of his eye. There was a breath of a song on the breeze and Jaskier reached up towards the largest stone, sluggishly bleeding scraped palms reaching towards the shimmering rock.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. An Encounter in the Woods</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jaskier falls through the stones, lands in the middle of an active conflict zone and plays damsel in distress to Triss</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Have no fear we're meeting G next chapter - we needed a little of Jaskier's trials and tribulations first. Call this a slowish burn if you will. </p><p>TW/CW: Canon typical violence (Jaskier encounters a swordfight, he is threatened briefly)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He felt for a moment as if he was falling. The telltale swoop in his belly, the wind rushing around him, blood pounding in his ears. His throat clenched as if he had swallowed too large a mouthful, and bile crept up his throat. His head spun and he could not catch his breath. He thought surely he would die, be ripped apart, or dashed against the rock, he was sure of it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, swiftly as it started, it was over. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He lay still in the grass, sprawled on his back. The aura of magic from last night was no longer in the air, but he still felt slightly off of his axis.  The stones around him were silent and still. The sun peeked over the horizon, weak light filtering through the clouds and catching on the dewy grass. His lungs ached and he pulled a deep breath of clean air, no lingering traces of bonfire on the wind. The birdsong started in the woods nearby. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier flexed his fingers and toes, pleased when they responded normally. He sat up slowly with a groan, checking his pounding head for blood or other signs of damage. His fingers came back clean, but his palms were scabbed over from his tumble last night. He idly wondered what time it was, and reached into his pocket. He winced, and recoiled, a small glass shard glittering from a fresh puncture. He gently pried the glass free and much more carefully pulled out what was once his smartphone. The screen was shattered, the casing busted open to expose the internal workings of the device. Needless to say, it didn’t turn on. He sighed and tossed it across the ring of stones, where it bounced in the grass before coming to rest. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pushed to his feet, his swimming head causing him to sway slightly. He caught himself on the tallest stone, but this time nothing happened. The stone was cool and rough under his hands. The sun rose higher in the sky, clouds burning off in the morning light. Jaskier set his shoulders and walked off in the direction he came from last night. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The path that he had taken last night was hard to find. He must have been drunker than he thought last night to even call it a path. It was little more than a vaguely trampled aisle of grass that wove down the hill and towards the town. He set off in that direction, picking his way carefully through the trees. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was startled out of his thoughts by the feeling of wind rushing past his face, and the thunk of something hitting a tree. He looked around and spotted an arrow lodged in the bark. It took him a worryingly long time to react, still fighting through his hangover to connect the dots. Was someone shooting at him? Another arrow whistled through the air and landed in the dirt a few feet to his left. Finally, his body kicked into gear, adrenaline flooding his system as he realized the danger he was in. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He scrambled behind a thick tree, crouching to become a smaller target. He could hear shouting and crashing coming from nearby. He couldn’t make out the words from this distance but there was the sound of conflict, and metallic clanging was ringing through the trees from somewhere up ahead. He crept closer, holding his breath to not draw attention. Two men fought in a small clearing in a whirlwind of swords. Jaskier’s breath caught in his lungs, and he pressed his hands over his mouth and nose to stifle any noise. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They didn’t look like hobbyists or reenactors. Their armor looked too solid, too genuine to be a recreation. As they snarled and shoved, it struck Jaskier that something about the fight was too raw. This was not a choreographed routine for a film or a performance, these men were fighting for their lives. They fought viciously, swords clanging and scraping. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They were fairly evenly matched. The slighter man was quicker, clad in faded studded leather armor, his sword flashing in the light filtering down through the canopy of leaves. The other man was slower, weighed down by his dark metal plate, but his attacks were more measured, precise. They tussled a moment longer before the man in the dark plate managed to force the other man onto his back foot. He pressed his advantage and the other man’s ankle caught on something in the grass and he fell to the ground, his sword tumbling out of his hand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man in the dark metal plate plunged his sword into the downed man’s chest and then wrenched it free. He kicked the body of the other man over, searching his belt for a purse or useful weapons. He dislodged a small purse of coins, and two flasks of some kind of liquid. He straightened and wiped his blade clean, turning to face the direction of the rest of the conflict. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier could feel his heart beating in his ears, his breath coming in panicked gusts, stifled only by the hands over his face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He weighed his options. Stay perfectly still, and hope the man leaves without noticing him; try and sneak away; run for his life; or try to smooth talk his way out of this. His decision was made for him when a twig broke somewhere behind him with a brittle snapping sound. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man spun around toward him, face morphing into a twisted grin. His teeth were bloody, and his lip curled up in a snarl. He spit in the grass and advanced towards where Jaskier was crouched behind a bush. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do we have here?” He asked, harsh voice grating. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier scrambled backward, looking desperately for something to defend himself with. As he retreated, his hands came to rest on a stick, about the length of his arm and he clutched it to his chest. He attempted to rise up to his feet, still stumbling. He held the stick out like a mockery of a sword, but even he knew how pathetic he must look. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nothing!” Jaskier croaked before clearing his throat. “Whatever is going on here, I have nothing to do with. I didn’t even see anything. I’ll just be on my way”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He edged backward, still holding the stick in front of him as he retreated. After a few steps, he spun around to attempt to sprint away. The other man caught him around the waist and slammed him into a nearby tree. The impact caused all his breath to leave him in a gust.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Now, now. That’s no way to speak to a general in the Queen's army, is it boy?” The man sneered at him. “I think it’s time you show me some proper respect.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier flinched backward, mind reeling. Queen? Which Queen? The continent hadn’t had Kings and Queens in centuries. Not since the Fall of Cintra. He examined the other man a little more closely. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tell me what you were doing in these woods before I slit your throa-” the man’s voice caught and his sword clattered to the ground. His hands reached up to claw at his own throat and his face turned a rather alarming shade of red. His eyes were bloodshot and panicked. Jaskier shoved him forcefully away and escaped from between the man and the tree. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Across the clearing was a woman, her curly auburn hair blown back slightly in an invisible wind. Her brow was creased and her hands glowed softly. Her hands became brighter for a moment and Jaskier heard the man behind him hit the ground with a dull thump. Jaskier felt a little shiver of fear creep up his back. She looked at him curiously, appearing to catalogue his lack of weapons and armor. She looked at him pityingly for a moment before her hands started to glow again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What are you-” he started to say before his vision started to swim.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<span>She smiled gently. The last words he heard before he fell - slowly, was falling always this slow? - to the ground; </span>
  <b>
    <em>forgive me. </em>
  </b>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. A Witcher</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jaskier comes a little bit closer to figuring out what's going on and makes sure the hottest man he's ever seen doesn't bleed out. </p><p> </p><p>TW/CW: blood/vague discussion of injury</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier woke in a smoky, dark room. A quick glance around suggested that no one was looking at him, so he closed his eyes and tried to regulate his breathing. He had been taken, but taken where? And by who? </p><p>A fire crackled nearby, and he could feel the heat of it on his right side. He was laying on something rough but soft enough that he was certain it was not the floor. The unevenness of his posture and texture of the fabric touching his exposed forearms suggested a sack of something. He carefully pulled in a deep breath, the smell of malted beer faint in his nose, mingling with the smell of the fire. Grain then. </p><p>“I know you’re awake” </p><p>Jaskier’s heart flew up into his throat. He cracked open one eye and sheepishly looked towards the voice. The woman from the woods had turned to look at him with a bemused expression.  She rose from her position at the hearth, coming towards him. He shuffled up onto his elbows, knowing full well he had no hope of defending himself. She held her hands up, palms facing him and walking slowly. </p><p>Before she could finish her approach, the door opened with a bang. A tall but slender man with pointed ears shouldered his way through the door, hauling a hulking semi conscious man with him. The woman rushed over to the newcomers, sliding a shoulder under the other side of the man who was swaying and barely clinging to consciousness. </p><p>Jaskier sprung to his feet, quickly getting himself out of the way. The night air came through the still open door, but Jaskier couldn’t see anything of note. Just a few horses and the edge of a copse of trees.  He thought about making a break for it, while the others were preoccupied, but quickly decided against it. There was something going on here that he couldn’t put his finger on. Arrows, sword fights, the “Queen’s Army”, now pointed ears on the newcomer - it didn’t make any sense. There hadn’t been elves or a Queen in hundreds of years. It was impossible, but somehow… </p><p>A pained groan snapped him out of his thoughts. The man who had been hauled in was now laid out on the same grain sacks that Jaskier had awoken on. He was covered in blood, the entire left side of his studded armor in tatters. The woman from the woods had moved back to the hearth, digging through a bag and pulling out strips of cloth, a wickedly sharp blade, and what looked like a rudimentary suture kit. She also pulled out a small wooden case that clinked as she walked over to the man. </p><p>The man with the pointed ears had retreated into the corner to wash the blood from his hands and arms in a bucket. He hadn’t seemed to notice Jaskier yet, so he was free to examine the man closely. He wore brown leather armor like the man who had been killed in the woods, designed for ease of movement. A bow and quiver were strapped across his back, and he had a few daggers in his belt but no sword. He let out a sigh before turning around. His eyes immediately snapped to Jaskier. </p><p>“What’s he doing here?” he said, brows knitting together. The woman looked up from her work, hands not pausing in their careful cleaning. </p><p>“I found him in the woods,” she turned her attention back to the bleeding man. “He was being threatened by the soldiers.” </p><p>The man crossed his arms, and looked at Jaskier for a long minute. The fire crackled and the unconscious man groaned in pain.</p><p>“Who are you?” the man asked. </p><p>Jaskier cleared his throat before replying. </p><p>“Uh, yes, hello.” he stalled for a moment, deciding on how to proceed. “I’m, uh, Jaskier. I was passing through the woods on the way to Lettenhove, when I was set upon by bandits.” He smiled slightly and then reached up to scratch the back of his head. “After that it’s largely a blur you see. I was nearly killed and then saved by this lovely woman here,” he gestured towards her. “Who do I have the pleasure of meeting good sir?”</p><p>The man rolled his eyes. </p><p>“Not a sir,” he said, “my name is Chireadan.”</p><p>Jaskier hummed in response. He turned to the woman. </p><p>“And you, my good lady? Who do I have the honor of meeting?” </p><p>She turned to wring out a cloth into a dish, pinkish water hitting the bowl with a loud splash. </p><p>“Triss Merigold”  She looked at him assessing for a moment. “Are you squeamish?” </p><p>He shook his head. She smiled and tilted her head to beckon him over. </p><p>“Good, I need an extra pair of hands,” she said, shuffling out of the way to make space for Jaskier. “Hold this and keep the pressure on, I need to prepare some herbs.” </p><p>Jaskier placed both of his hands on the compress, taking great care to apply even, consistent pressure to the wound. Chireadan had slipped out the door to tend to the horses and ensure all the packs were ready for a quick getaway and Triss was rummaging through the box of herbs and tinctures, carefully measuring and mixing in a small mortar and pestle she had produced from her kit. Jaskier took advantage in the brief lull to look down at the injured man, urgency seemingly passed, or at the very least delayed. </p><p>Oh. </p><p>Jaskier’s mouth went dry. Sprawled out on the grain sacks, nearly bleeding out under his hands was the hottest man he had ever seen. His huge scarred hands, sharp jaw, broad muscular chest, soft-looking white hair tied off his face - Jaskier could write literal sonnets about each part of the man. Together, he was nothing short of breathtaking.</p><p> </p><p>A pained groan sounded from the man as he cracked open an eye to reveal yellow eyes with slitted pupils. Jaskier’s heart kicked into high gear, at the proof of the impossible, of something that had been extinct for almost a hundred years. A Witcher.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Either Brave or Very Stupid</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jaskier realizes we are not in Kansas anymore</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jaskier floundered for a moment. Queens, Elves, </span>
  <b>
    <em>Witchers.  </em>
  </b>
  <span>As wild as it seemed, the old woman from Belleteyn must have been on to something. Because wherever, </span>
  <b>
    <em>or whenever</em>
  </b>
  <span>, he was … there were too many impossibilities to ignore. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Witcher’s pupils blew wide before contracting to narrow slits as he became conscious and aware of his surroundings. His nostrils flared and his fingers twitched towards his sword belt before stilling as he caught sight of the curly haired woman. His eyes slid to Jaskier and his entire body tensed up and leaned away from him, he moved as to push himself up off the pile of sacks</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier scoffed and pressed the man’s shoulder firmly down onto the makeshift bed. All the while, he kept steady pressure on the bleeding gash down the Witcher’s side.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Keep still,” he chided. “Or I’ll make certain you bleed out before Triss can fix you up”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Triss laughed softly from somewhere over his shoulder, rhythmic clacking of the mortar and pestle loud in the room. The Witcher let out a barely audible growling sound, staring menacingly at Jaskier. He rolled his eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If I scared that easy, I’d have been dead many times over. Now quiet. And for Meletele’s sake be still.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Triss shouldered her way in beside him, gently peeling his hands away from the wound and peeling back the now soaked cloth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s right Geralt,” she sighed. “These wounds aren’t closing.”</span>
  <span><br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The white haired man, Geralt, grunted. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Poisoned blade,” he grated out. “Will heal once the poison clears.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier raised a single brow, looking from Geralt’s (stupidly lovely) face, to the sluggishly bleeding wound, to Triss, her face screwed up in concentration and worry.  She smiled tightly at him, and shuffled closer, placing her hands over his and gently guiding them to either side of the wound, holding it closed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You hold, I’ll stitch. Geralt, for gods’ sake be still and let yourself be cared for.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt grunted, but all the fight left his body as he slumped back into the sacks of grain. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There’s a good Witcher,” Jaskier mumbled, barely aware of the words coming out of his mouth. Both Triss and Geralt looked at him. Geralt’s eyes narrowed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you know of Witchers?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier paused for a moment. Witchers and their role in the Elven rebellions had been a special interest of his during his schooling. He had written several papers on the subject and spent far too much of his graduate years excavating the dusty halls of Kaer Morhen searching for some secret, some clue to the secrets of the Witchers. They were a secretive order, and though his knowledge was extremely limited, he was one of the foremost scholars on the subject. He needed to be careful not to reveal too much, and show his hand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh you know, rumors mostly,” he shrugged slightly, careful not to jostle the wound as Triss carefully stitched. Her stitches were impeccable; neat, straight and even. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Secretive lot you Witchers,” he met Geralt’s eyes, refusing to turn away first. “But the cat eyes, two swords and shiny necklace are a dead giveaway.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt hummed in agreement, letting his eyes drift close as Triss continued to stitch. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re either brave,” Geralt paused for effect before continuing.”Or very stupid.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier laughed, meeting Triss’ eyes and sending her a quick wink. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps I’m both.”  Geralt chuckled slightly in response. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Triss tied off the stitches with a small careful knot before rising to rinse the blood from her hands. Jaskier leaned back slightly, stretching his arms overhead and arching his back to stretch. Chireadan took this moment as his cue to come crashing back through the door. He had his sword in his hands and a wild look in his eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’ve been followed. We need to move now, before the sun comes up.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt sighed before starting to sit up with a pained grunt. Jaskier placed his hand upon the man’s thick shoulder, holding him in place, while not looking away from Chireadan. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s in no position to travel right now. Half an hour ago he was bleeding to death.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt shrugged off Jaskier’s grip and pushed himself to sitting, feet finding the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Witcher, remember?” his voice sounded strained as he stood. Jaskier bullied his way into the man’s space and shoved his shoulder under the witcher’s arm, taking some of the man’s considerable weight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chireadan did a quick sweep of the small space, collecting an empty waterskin, and some salvageable bandages from their spot beside the fire. Triss bundled her box of herbs and medicines back into her saddlebag, slipping out into the night to attach the bag to her horse. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt steered him out the door and toward the brown mare at the end of the line. Triss was already in the saddle, Chireadan not far behind. Jaskier watched as Geralt managed to swing himself up onto the horse without passing out.  After a beat, he raised an eyebrow at Jaskier, arm extended towards him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier shrugged and accepted the help up onto the horse. It had been a long while since he had ridden, but he managed to settle himself behind Geralt without too much trouble. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Someone has to keep you upright I suppose” he joked, smiling to himself as he felt the broad back in front of him vibrate with a deep chuckle. He wrapped one arm around Geralt’s waist, carefully avoiding his injured side. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Where are we going?” Jaskier asked quietly, his voice still sounding loud in the night air. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dol Blathanna” Geralt replied, voice a low rumble. “Filavandrel will know what to do with you” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt squeezed his thighs and the horse began to walk. They followed closely behind the other two horses. Jaskier turned his head to look over his shoulder, the vague outline of the hill with the stones disappearing as they passed into the forest.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Dol Blathanna</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>We arrive in Dol Blathanna, meet Zoltan and head to dinner.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>apologies for a lack of update - i've gotten like super into stardew valley again and it ate up my life for the past week. I'm hoping to have another update out soon but I am going to be up north next week so may not be able to get one out - THANK YOU FOR ALL THE LOVE &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jaskier was exhausted. </p><p>They had been riding nearly two days straight. They stopped only to water and feed the horses, for a few scattered hours of sleep, and to relieve themselves but for nothing else. Chireadan sent suspicious glances his way if he tried to speak, so he had settled for an uncomfortable silence. He was unaccustomed to riding horses for such long stretches and his body protested. His back ached, his hips were stretched beyond comfort and he could no longer feel his ass. Any time they dismounted, his legs collapsed like a newborn colt before he could regain his composure. He was in enough discomfort that he could not even properly enjoy the hard line of Geralt’s strong back and strong curve of taught buttocks in the saddle in front of him. As it was, he was holding on to both the horse and his composure by an increasingly delicate thread. </p><p>The woods had changed as they had plodded along. The woods had grown increasingly verdant and humid as they approached the valley of Dol Blathanna. The insects were larger and more insistent and the birds screeched in the trees. When they stopped briefly to rest, the ground was spongy and damp. While he had previously been afforded some illusion of privacy when relieving himself, now someone followed a few paces behind him while he ventured into the brush. He was unsure if this was because he had learned some of the path, or if creatures lurked in these woods, or perhaps both, but it made his hackles tight. </p><p>After a short rest and some incredibly dry bread, they were back on their way. Triss had smiled tightly at him when he asked their location and he had amended his question to the duration left in their travel. He was assured that they would arrive within the day, but that was the extent of the information he was given. </p><p>Hours later, with the sun much lower in the sky, their path began to widen. The trees looked more carefully maintained, cleared from the path to allow easier movement. Ahead, the ground rose in a moderate slope, which appeared to level off further up. As they approached the top of the hill, Jaskier got his first real sight of Dol Blathanna. </p><p>It was big. Much bigger than Jaskier had ever realized. He had been there once before, but the place had been little more than a collection of ruins. There had been scholarly talk of restoring the halls, but the overgrowth of floral vines and trees had proved a larger undertaking than funding would allow. The university had managed to rebuild a section of the wall and archways before throwing up its hands in defeat. The lush greenery of the valley also meant that anything less hardy than stone had rotted or been destroyed long ago, so there was little to be gained from excavating.</p><p>The halls rising out of the mist were in disrepair. Vines climbed up the sides of the city walls, and some sections had already crumbled to time and weather. The keep itself looked in good repair from what he could tell. A thick plume of smoke billowed from the chimney and a cheery green flag could be seen flying from the highest tower. Behind the city, the walls of the valley went nearly straight up. A waterfall rushed down the valley walls off to the east of the city, hitting a glittering river that wound around the city walls before disappearing underground. A large stone bridge crossed the water like a moat. </p><p>The horses plodded along, green path turning to stone underfoot as they crested the hill, and into cobbles as they crossed the bridge. The portions of the walls that were still intact loomed above them as they approached the gate. There did not appear to be guards posted anywhere from what Jaskier could see, but the entrance to the gate appeared to be covered in some kind of complicated knot of vines. Triss gracefully slid off of her dappled grey horse and approached the gateway. Her hands briefly glowed a cool blue before the knotted vines began to recede. They crossed through the threshold and Jaskier turned to see the vines slide back into place with a creaking groan. </p><p>The courtyard was largely empty. A single brazier crackled merrily away, but the homes and shops stood vacant, doors ajar and windows dark. The twilight was starting to fall around them, a slight chill in the air as the sun disappeared behind the cliffside of the valley. Jaskier shivered slightly and pressed unconsciously closer to the broad back in front of him. The witcher stiffened slightly in the saddle before pulling their horse to a stop. </p><p>“Get off” he grumbled. </p><p>Jaskier spluttered slightly but before he could work himself into a properly indignant response, he noticed Triss had not remounted, and Chireadan had also slid to the ground. They were both leading their horses towards a hitching bar positioned over a trough of fresh water. A darkened stable doorway was ahead, and a curious whinny came from within. The horse Chireadan had been riding answered with a whinny of his own. Geralt shook his head with a huff before swinging his right leg over the horses’ neck and sliding down her withers to land with a soft thump. Jaskier smiled sheepishly before dismounting himself. </p><p>A dwarf with a thick beard and a bald head emerged from the stables, wiping his hands on a rag before tucking it back into his belt. </p><p>“Took you long enough,” he said with a smile. </p><p>“We ran into some… complications,” Chiredean said wryly. Geralt inclined his head slightly towards Jaskier. The dwarf’s eyes snapped over to him and sized him up. Jaskier drew himself up to his full height and attempted to look unaffected. The dwarf’s eyes narrowed slightly. </p><p>“I’ll send word up to Filavandrel shall I?” he said, before whistling sharply. A small disturbance could be heard from within the stables before a boy came tumbling through the door, bucket still stuck to his left foot. <br/>Triss interrupted the proceedings. </p><p>“Tell Filavandrel that we will have an audience with him in the morning. For now, we need a bath, a bed, and a meal.”</p><p>The dwarf looked pointedly at Jaskier. </p><p>“And him?” he asked suspiciously, crossing his arms over his broad chest. </p><p>“The same,” Triss said, voice brooking no argument. “He is our guest until we can decide what to do with him.” </p><p>Jaskier raised an eyebrow. </p><p>“Guest? Or prisoner?” he said challengingly. </p><p>Geralt shrugged his frankly unfairly large shoulders, half turning towards him as he undid the girth on his saddle.</p><p>“Depends if you try to leave.” </p><p>Jaskier deflated slightly but kept his composure. After a beat, he decided to try another tactic. </p><p>“So what’s for dinner?”</p><p>Triss laughed, a pretty, trilling thing. She inclined her head towards a staircase leading up to the keep’s main door. </p><p>“Let’s find out shall we?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. A Bed and A Bath</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sorry I took so long, take a strangely intimate bath scene for your troubles.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Surpriiiise Shortayyyy</p><p>I am truly sorry that I took an unintended hiatus from this, I was just having quarantine fatigue and working through getting a diagnosis/treatment for my ADHD. I do truly want to finish this so please don't give up on me :'(</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The stocky dwarf led the party through several dark stone hallways and up a narrow circular staircase. The landing opened up into a larger passage, this one lit with torches and hung with tapestries, no doubt to protect the inhabitants from whatever the seasons brought. The hall was cool, leaded glass windows open at either end to allow the summer breeze to waft through the castle.</p><p>They passed several doors, some which stood ajar and some which were closed. From the glimpses Jaskier was able to acquire, they were largely bedchambers. They approached the end of the hallway and the dwarf pulled out a ring of keys, slotting one into the lock and turning it with a resounding click. He carefully spun the ring of keys until the key came loose and he handed it to Jaskier. </p><p>“This room will be yours for as long as you’re with us. This is the only key so no one will bother you.” </p><p>Jaskier could feel his brows raise in surprise. The dwarf continued. </p><p>“Geralt stays across the hall and he will know if you try to escape, so save us all the trouble and don’t bother trying.”</p><p>Geralt huffed a laugh behind him. The dwarf met his eye with a wink. Jaskier turned the key over in his hand, examining it carefully before slipping it into his pocket. </p><p>“Could I trouble someone for a change of clothes? These ones are all..” he gestured at his torn clothes stained in several places with both dirt and blood. “Dirty seems like the wrong word, but I cannot seem to come up with better.” </p><p>The dwarf laughed heartily at him. </p><p>“Aye lad. Geralt can grab you something to wear before you head down to the baths.” </p><p>With that the dwarf started walking away. The quiet click of a door opening caused Jaskier to look over his shoulder towards Geralt, only to see a door swinging closed and shutting with a resounding thump, lock clicking back into place. </p><p>For the first time since he woke up he was properly alone. He walked through the door of the bedroom allocated to him and closed the door gently behind himself, not bothering to lock it. </p><p>The room was nothing remarkable. A slightly stale smell hung in the air, but the bed looked comfortable and the linens looked clean. Jaskier moved to the window and unlatched it, pushing it open with a scraping sound. The evening air was cool but humid, the smell of greenery and flowers faintly on the wind. He took a deep breath and held it in his chest until it started to hurt, before breathing out. </p><p>He was all alone, hundreds of years in the past, caught in the middle of what he could only assume was the elven rebellion. Modern scholars disagreed about how long the time period spanned and the exact order and chronology of events, so orienting himself in time was a challenge. He knew he was somewhere between the first elven uprising and the fall of Cintra, but that was a period spanning nearly fifteen years. </p><p>There was no agreed upon date for the first uprising though most agreed that it took place sometime after the betrothal of Pavetta in 1249. Cintra would fall to Nilfgaard in 1263 in a fiery blaze, taking the records of its reign with it. From the state of disrepair of the castle and the quiet courtyard, Jaskier would guess that it was well into the 1250s, but he couldn't be certain. </p><p>There did not seem to be any books, letters or personal effects from anyone who had used this room before. A large trunk stood open and empty at the foot of the bed, and upon investigation, the wardrobe in the corner contained only an extra blanket. It was heavy, presumably for the winter months, and soft but slightly threadbare, fraying around the edges. Jaskier folded it carefully, placing it back on the shelf in the wardrobe. </p><p>The room was otherwise empty aside from a few unlit candles, and a small stand with a basin and empty pitcher. Above it on the wall was a slightly chipped looking glass. He peered at his own reflection for a moment, combing through his hair with his fingers to remove bits of twigs and debris that had managed to work their way into his hair during their extended travel. Anything more involved than that would have to wait. </p><p>Jaskier walked over to the bed and laid down on top of the covers, not bothering to remove any of his clothes or shoes. It was firm and lumpy but preferable to the forest floor. All at once, the tiredness he had held carefully at bay crashed into him. His eyes were heavy and nearly every part of his body hurt. He felt sleep creeping up on him, and he allowed it to pull him under. </p><p>---- </p><p>He woke to a loud rapping knock at his door and he shot up into a sitting position. He felt dizzy and off center for a moment, looking around at the unfamiliar room. </p><p>“Just a second” he yelled out to the person in the hallway. He scrambled to his feet and looked briefly around the room. A quick glance in the mirror showed his hair in even more disarray than before and he halfheartedly attempted to smooth it before sighing in defeat. </p><p>He walked over to the door and pulled it open only to be hit in the face with a rough towel and a loose bundle of clothing. He peeked out around his door frame to see Geralt’s back, heading away from him down the hall. He also had a bundle of fabric under one arm, and his customary hard black armor was nowhere to be seen. Instead he was in a rough-spun dark tunic and tight leather pants that clung to his unfairly round ass. </p><p>“Are you coming or not?”  Geralt rumbled out, throwing a glance over his shoulder towards Jaskier. </p><p>Blushing slightly and fumbling to get the clothes and towel bundled under his arm, he scrambled after Geralt. They proceeded down the same hallway from earlier, and Jaskier looked around in amazement, attempting to absorb as much information about Dol Blathanna as he could. He couldn't help the smirk from appearing on his face as he spotted several items that disproved the frankly insulting theories proposed by his colleague Valdo Marx. He made mental notes on several portraits and tapestries that would make interesting points of study as he followed Geralt through a doorway and onto a set of spiral stairs.</p><p>Geralt led him down and down the spiral staircase, the air becoming more and more humid as they descended. Now thoroughly dizzy, Jaskier let his hand trail along the wall. The cool stone was damp and grounding, but he was still sore from days of riding. His legs burned with the effort and he hoped they were close to their destination.</p><p>Geralt pulled up short in front of a tapestry and a lost in thought Jaskier crashed headlong into his back. Geralt grunted slightly and Jaskier quickly retreated with a mumbled apology. </p><p>Geralt pulled aside the tapestry, letting out a blast of hot air and steam. He passed through the opening and let the tapestry fall into Jaskier’s path. He caught the heavy fabric and examined it closely. No clear imagery of any kind, merely a simple pattern woven out of a heavy woolen thread. He rubbed the fabric gently, noting that it was treated with some kind of oil or wax to keep out the wet air of the baths. Fascinating, he thought to himself - this was the kind of information that his contemporary scholars would kill for, and he had a front row seat. </p><p>Crossing through the threshold of the baths, he let the heavy tapestry fall behind him, closing in the heat of the baths. The smooth stone floor gently sloped down to the water, and the ceiling was low and domed. The water itself was divided into several areas, the largest of which was flowing lazily out of and back into the earth on either side of the room. There were also three smaller glowing pools with steam rising from the water. As Jaskier approached, he could see that the glow of each pool came from runes inscribed on the bottom of each pool. Before he could ask, Geralt spoke. </p><p>“The runes heat the pools and keep them clean,” he said, voice reverberating around the cave. “The farthest with the green runes has healing properties.”</p><p>Jaskier let out a breath he hadn’t even known he was holding and padded over to the pools, crouching down to dip his hand in the slightly green pool. It was pleasantly warm and his hand tingled slightly as he removed it from the water. </p><p>“Incredible. I would never have guessed…” he trailed off, sending a sidelong glance at Geralt, who had turned his back to Jaskier and begun to remove his shoes. Jaskier investigated the other pools, finding the other two pools were different temperatures but seemed not to have any other properties. The flowing water was cool to the touch, and crystal clear. </p><p>“Is this the same river as the waterfall we saw as we approached?”</p><p>Geralt grunted an affirmative, and as Jaskier turned to look at him, the words dried up in his mouth. Geralt still had his back to Jaskier, and he was placing the last of his clothes into a neat pile on one of the shelves by the door. </p><p>His broad back was littered with scars, the largest of which were three long slashes that cut across his entire torso. The light in the cave highlighted the shape of his well built muscles, and his broad shoulders that narrowed to slim hips. Jaskier averted his eyes quickly, a light blush riding high on his cheeks. He turned his back to the room and efficiently stripped out of his filthy clothes.  </p><p>The water sloshed slightly as Geralt submerged himself in one of the central pools. Jaskier hesitated for a split second before removing his undergarments, happy to be out of several days worth of filth. The air was humid and warm, but the hairs on the back of his neck prickled slightly as if he was being watched. He turned around, careful not to slip on the damp floor, and moved towards the pools. </p><p>Geralt was in the hottest of the pools, nearly entirely eclipsed in steam. He rested in the pool, with his arms crossed on the edge, and his head pillowed on his forearm. His eyes were closed and for a moment Jaskier was reminded of a video he was once shown of a large cat asleep in the sun. Jaskier started to move towards the pools. Without opening his eyes, Geralt spoke. </p><p>“Green one.” </p><p>Jaskier stopped in his tracks, making an inquisitive noise. Geralt cracked one eye open, peering up at him. He inclined his head slightly towards the green pool, before letting his eye slip closed again. </p><p>“Get in the green one,” he repeated. “I’ve seen newly born deer that can walk better than you right now.” </p><p>Changing course slightly, Jaskier approached the green pool, and slipped into the warm water. As the gentle, tingling heat seeped into his body, he let out a slow exhale. The last few days had been more than his body was used to. Riding hard and sleeping rough was a far cry from his normally cushy life. </p><p>He lounged in the water for a moment before noticing a small inset shelf, raised just out of the water with shallow runes carved into the stone. The shelf contained several rough bars of soap, a few clean looking natural sponges, a bottle of clearly labelled hair oil, and a thick bone comb. He gently ran a finger over the polished bone, briefly wondering what creature it had come from. </p><p>The sound of splashing drew his attention over to the pool where Geralt was bathing. He was methodically scrubbing at his body with one of the rough bars of soap, carefully removing the blood and dirt from the skin around the now healed wound. The fine lather of soap glistened in the low light and Jaskier felt another blush creeping up his neck. Geralt glanced up, as if feeling Jaskier’s gaze, and raised a brow. He inclined his head towards the side of the pool with the cleaning implements. </p><p>“You best get started, they’re expecting us for dinner.”  </p><p>“Right,” Jaskier said, hesitating briefly. “And everything is... clean?” </p><p>“Same as the pools.” Geralt huffed, before turning his back on Jaskier and dunking his head underwater. Jaskier floated over to the shelf, selecting a sponge and soap. The soap had a lumpy texture but smelled lightly herbal and comforting. He began scrubbing off the days on the road, exposing the flushed skin beneath. </p><p>Once his skin was scrubbed to a glowing pink, he picked up the thick bone comb, the heavy polished material still miraculously cool in the heat of the cavern. He carefully teased the comb through his tangled locks, dislodging several pieces of debris and dirt. Once the comb slid smoothly through his hair, he carefully lathered up a handful of soap and began the process of washing it. He used the time to admire some of the glowing runes on the bottom of the pool, trying to commit the shapes to memory.</p><p>The sound of a frustrated growl brought him out of his thoughts. He looked over to find Geralt roughly tugging on a bone comb that was thoroughly tangled in his long white hair. He gasped, rocketing halfway out of the pool before he even realized he had moved. </p><p>“What are you doing?”</p><p>Geralt froze, comb still lodged in a matted section several inches from his head. The sound of wet feet slapping on stone echoed through the chamber before Jaskier jumped into the next pool with a loud splash. Without thinking, he slapped the witcher’s hands away from the comb thoroughly tangled in the long white hair. </p><p>“No wonder it’s such a mess if you treat it like that,” he huffed. “Now be still and pass me that hair oil.”</p><p> </p><p>Geralt looked at him silently, a deep furrow between his dark brows. Jaskier met his stare head on, one brow raised and hand out expectantly for the bottle of oil. He cleared his throat pointedly and Geralt sighed in acceptance, hands leaving the thick polished bone. The comb stayed lodged in his hair.</p><p>Jaskier allowed himself to feel a little embarrassed for a moment, having interrupted the other man’s bath without so much as a warning, but he quickly pushed that aside. Based on his research, the man in front of him would have had an exceptionally hard life with little kindness.<br/>
The majority of the lore regarding witchers was less than complimentary, likening them to the monsters they hunted. The few sympathetic sources he managed to find had emphasized the discrimination and hatred that they had faced before and during the uprising. </p><p>At this point in history, with all the schools fallen, witchers were a dying breed. The last handful of them walked the path, never resting and getting little thanks and even less appreciation. They were more likely to meet the end of a pitchfork than a warm welcome and it had always made Jaskier’s chest ache. </p><p>Geralt picked up the small glass bottle carefully, holding it cradled in his palm like a baby bird. He tentatively held it out to Jaskier, gaze still wary. Jaskier’s gut clenched as a wave of sadness washed over him. The witcher’s reluctant look reminded him of the dogs in the shelter he had once visited in Novigrad. Mistreated by the world and yet still hopeful for some kind of affection or acceptance. Jaskier moved to take the bottle from Geralt’s outstretched hand, fingers barely grazing the warm calloused palm of the witcher.</p><p>He couldn’t trace his interest in witchers back to any particular event, but he had always had a soft spot for the underdog. Perhaps it was the Romance of a hero alone on horseback, two swords strapped across his back, riding off in defense of the world that didn’t care if he lived or died. The reality of it was somewhat less heroic but no less noble; a quiet, defensive man built up by agony and magic, littered with scars. </p><p>Jaskier was drawn out of his thoughts by the cool and smooth glass bottle in his hands. He levered the small cork out of the mouth of the bottle with a satisfying pop, setting it aside on the edge of the pool. He measured out a palmful of the oil, which was thick and smelled faintly of almonds. Placing the bottle beside the cap on the ledge, he cupped his other hand under the palmful of oil so as not to spill. </p><p>“Last chance to stop me, Witcher.” he said quietly, unwilling to break the quiet calm that had settled over them.</p><p>Geralt grunted and raised one shoulder almost imperceptibly before letting it drop. With one last calming breath Jaskier stepped forward into the other man’s personal space, raising his hands high enough to let the oil pour over the tangled and dingy looking hair. A fine tremor ran down Geralt’s neck and back as the oil dripped onto his scalp. Jaskier mercifully ignored the reaction, spreading the remaining oil over the long locks, focusing on the scalp and roots. Once he had spread his handful through the hair, he retrieved the bottle again, pouring a thin stream directly onto the section tangled with the comb. He returned the bottle to the shelf in the pool, noting with wonder as the bottle refilled itself. Something to add to his notes, he supposed. </p><p>He then began the arduous process of de-tangling the comb from the hair, carefully wiggling and massaging the knotted area until the oil loosened the hold. He slipped the comb free with a triumphant noise. Geralt huffed, the sound suspiciously close to a laugh, and Jaskier felt a small bubble of pride in his chest. </p><p>With his newly freed comb, he carefully began brushing the long hair, starting at the ends and working the knots out gently and efficiently. After several minutes of this treatment, the hair was smooth and knot free, reflecting the lights of the cave. The tension that had been so apparent in the witcher’s broad shoulders had lessened with the rhythmic pull of the comb. With only a moment’s hesitation, Jaskier grabbed a bar of soap, carefully lathering it in his hands before smoothing the suds into the detangled hair. He scrubbed firmly at the other man’s scalp, dislodging any caked in dirt and blood that had not been removed by the comb. A small rumble of pleasure escaped the witcher and Jaskier smiled a little to himself. </p><p>“Rinse,” he said, applying a gentle downward pressure to the shoulders in front of him. With a quick dunk of his hair and a cursory scrub, Geralt removed the soap and the last of the dirt. As  he emerged and wiped the water from his eyes, Jaskier retrieved a few more drops of oil, rubbing it between his palms and then applying it to the bottom half of Geralt’s now gleaming white hair. He separated the hair into three smooth sections before weaving them into a simple braid. </p><p>“There,” he smiled, washing the remains of the oil off his hands, and stepping out from behind Geralt. ”Good as new.” </p><p>A tiny smile pulled at the edges of the witcher’s normally scowling mouth, and Jaskier felt his heart skip a beat. For a moment, the only noise in the room was the gentle flowing of water. Geralt lifted one large, scarred hand to touch his new braid, fingers ghosting over it gently. He looked down at the surface of the water, before firming his shoulders and looking at Jaskier. </p><p>They were almost of a height and Jaskier felt the temperature of the room ratchet up several degrees as a prickly sweat broke out on the back of his neck. Had it always been this hard to breathe? </p><p>Jaskier’s gaze flickered down to Geralt’s mouth and back up, suddenly desperate to see if his lips were as soft as they looked. </p><p>Geralt swallowed hard and opened his mouth to say something, before being interrupted by the sound of Jaskier’s stomach growling loud enough to wake the dead. The sound startled them both and the strangely electric atmosphere between them disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived. </p><p>Geralt cleared his throat and made an awkward half gesture. </p><p>“We should, um..” he trailed off. </p><p>“Get to dinner. Yeah.”  Jaskier replied, already moving towards the edge of the pool, face burning. </p><p>They both dried and got dressed quickly, not meeting each other’s eyes. Once he was dressed, Geralt pulled the tapestry back, letting in a blast of cool air. He stepped out into the stairwell and let the tapestry swing back into place. Jaskier scrambled to get his shoes on, chasing the witcher out of the baths and up the stairs, lest he get lost on his way to dinner.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. An Audience with the King</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jaskier meets Filavandrel and is maybe (definitely) interrogated over dinner.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Don't fact check this because i am playing fast and loose with game/show/book/fanon however suits me</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The hall went silent as the Jaskier and his escort passed through the door. The room was far too large for the number of diners. Several small groupings of humans and elves were bunched up at one end of the long tables, clustered around the hearth. The head table was sat with mismatched chairs and several of them sat empty. In its center sat a tired looking elf with long blonde hair tied half up in elaborate braids. As they approached, Jaskier could see that his robes were faded and visibly mended in places. The elves and humans who peered at him from their tables looked slightly underfed and haggard, but the tables were piled with roasted meat and bread. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier approached the head table and performed a slightly stilted bow.  The elf waved him off impatiently, and whatever had settled over the room as they entered, dissipated. Lively conversation resumed and the sounds of knives scraping plates filled the hall alongside the crackling of the wood fire. The tired looking blonde elf in the central chair fixed Geralt with an inscrutable look. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wolf”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Filavandrel” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt did not bow, but did incline his head slightly in deference to the elven king. Filavandrel nodded once, before turning his cool gaze onto Jaskier. He had high cheekbones and the pointed ears typical of the elven race, but his cheeks were slightly sunken. His eyes were a stony grey and tired. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Who have you brought to us, Wolf?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The king’s voice was even and clear, betraying no emotion or sentiment. For the first time since falling through the stones, Jaskier felt a clutch of fear in the pit of his stomach. Filavandrel was a legendary figure, leader of the Elven rebels, and Jaskier had read nearly every surviving account of events. They painted him fiercely protective of his subjects and singularly focused on reclaiming his people’s homelands from the Cintrans. Jaskier knew that his ability to survive and make it back to his own time was largely dependent on not being unceremoniously shoved in a dungeon and left to rot. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Found him in the woods, says his name is Jaskier.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The king did not look at Geralt as he spoke, instead focusing on Jaskier’s face. Jaskier got the impression that one misstep could be the difference between life and death. Spycraft was rife through the elven rebellion, and more often than not, captured spies were killed rather than risk losing valuable information to their enemies. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is that so,” the king replied carefully, “And what do you have to say for yourself </span>
  <b>
    <em>Jaskier</em>
  </b>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier took a deep breath, taking the precious few seconds to gather his thoughts and prepare himself for the minefield he was about to navigate. He would stick to the truth as much as possible so as not to get caught in a web of lies, either now or down the road.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was in Posada for Belleteyn, drinking enough to be foolish, and I must have taken a nighttime stroll. Woke up the next morning with a hangover, in a field of flowers with no idea how to get back to town.” He paused, affecting a slight sheepishness so as to sell his story as a comedy of errors. “Next thing I knew, I had wandered onto a battlefield and there was a man with a sword to my throat. That would have been the end if Triss hadn’t happened upon me at the exact right moment.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Convenient timing that,” the king said, leaning back slightly and steepling his fingers. He waved at Jaskier to go on. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Triss hit me with some kind of spell, and I regained awareness lying on a sack of grain in a peasants cabin somewhere. Less than an hour later we were riding for Dol Blathanna.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The king hummed thoughtfully. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You must be hungry,” He gestured to the empty seats surrounding him. “Join me.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier bowed his head and issued his thanks, walking up the stone steps to the dais where the head table was located. Geralt followed close behind him, as if he might try to run in a room full of elven rebels. He sat directly beside the king as Filavandrel had indicated. The chair was hard and one leg was slightly wobbly. Immediately a small balding man trotted over to fill his goblet with wine. The table in front of him displayed a slab of roasted meat, some stewed root vegetables and lumpy looking bread. He paused, looking over to the king, whose plate had been  filled for him by the balding man who had filled Jaskier’s goblet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please eat your fill - we do not always have such an abundance, but our hunting parties have had a good season.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier doled out a measured portion of food, slightly less than the king had taken in deference to him, but not enough to look like he was rejecting their hospitality. Beside him, Geralt had no such qualms, piling his plate high with the roasted meat and vegetables. Jaskier supposed it took quite a lot to fuel his bulky frame, certainly much more than they had found on the road. Even for him, a few nights of hard tack and whatever game they could find had left him feeling a little off center. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You said that you had been in Posada for Belleteyn,” The king said in a perfectly level tone. “Where were you visiting from?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier took a large bite of bread, taking the momentary reprieve of chewing and washing his bread down with a swig of wine to decide how to answer the question. He searched through his memories to try to find a safe choice, and ended up deciding on a slightly altered version of the truth. The big players during the 11th century were Nilfgaard, Aedirn, and Cintra, so a town in Redania was as safe a choice as any, and his family had old ties to Lettenhove. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been studying and working in Oxenfurt, but I grew up in a small town outside of Lettenhove,” He took another sip of wine before continuing. “My course of study breaks for the summer and I had heard tell of the beauty of the Valley of Flowers and their Belleteyn, so this year I made the journey.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Quite the journey for a festival don’t you think?” Filavandrel asked, casually sipping from his goblet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier laughed before choking slightly on his bread and dissolving into a brief fit of coughing. Several of the people seated at tables nearby glanced his way before losing interest. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Too right you are,” he smiled. “But a childhood friend who settled near Posada was married during the spring, and I was unable to attend because of my coursework. This felt like a perfect chance to both attend the festival and wish her well.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Indeed.” Filavandrel peered at Jaskier closely. “And will this friend be expecting you back?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” Jaskier paused. “No, no one is expecting me. We had parted ways before the festival. Though I’m sure the innkeep I left my things with will be awfully cross with me when I return.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt let out a quiet huff, which Jaskier chose to interpret as a laugh. He snuck a brief glance at Geralt, and found that he had resumed shoveling food from his plate to his mouth with all the grace of a starving dog. Jaskier found it oddly endearing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he returned his gaze to Filavandrel, he found the other man watching him and Geralt with an expression somewhere between puzzled and thoughtful. It was the first show of emotion Jaskier had seen from the man since they had entered the hall. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’m sure we can find you some things to use while you are with us. I’ll have Zoltan set you up with whatever you need.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Jaskier said, dipping his head in thanks. “But I wouldn’t want to impose on your hospitality any longer than I need to.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Filavandrel smiled, showing off teeth that seemed just a little too sharp. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nonsense. You are our guest, and you will be treated as such.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier returned the smile, but he could feel that it didn’t quite reach his eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“As Your Majesty wishes.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Filavandrel stood up suddenly, threadbare robes swirling around his feet. He met Geralt’s stare over Jaskier’s head, face losing all mirth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Show our guest back to his quarters, and then meet me in my drawing room. We have much to discuss.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And with that, he left, his balding footman in tow. Geralt grunted and stood up, brushing the wrinkles out of his clothes and pushing in his chair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You heard the man.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He waited expectantly while Jaskier folded his napkin, placing it just to the right of his plate. He stood, and followed Geralt out of the hall, noticing that most of the others in the hall had already left. The few who remained were near the hearth playing a card game. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt led him back up the spiral stairs and through the long portrait lined hallway, stopping just short of his room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Before you go,” Jaskier said, wringing his hands.”Could I trouble you for a book of some kind? I fear it will be a rather long time before the sun fully goes down.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt nodded and disappeared into his own room for a moment, emerging with a stack of well slightly water damaged and faded books. Jaskier took them from Geralt, their hands brushing as they transferred the books. Jaskier hugged the books against his chest, arms crossed in front of him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt opened his mouth as if to say something before shaking his head slightly and turning to walk away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Geralt?” Jaskier called down the hallway. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt stopped but didn’t turn around. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, truly.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt kept walking, but he paused right at the top of the stairs, looking back at Jaskier for one brief moment. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Goodnight Jaskier” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He disappeared down the stairs before Jaskier could formulate a response. He stood in the empty hallway for a moment, cradling the books that Geralt had given him from his own room.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Goodnight Geralt.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. To Sleep, Perchance to Dream</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Geralt is secretly soft, Jaskier is hella bored, and no one here treats books with respect</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Update schedule? I don't know her. </p>
<p>Why do I always set up a slow burn knowing who I am as a person? No one will ever know.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>His first night at Dol Blathanna passed without further incident. After returning from dinner he had paced the length of his room, carefully unpicking the conversation with Filavandrel. It was abundantly clear that the elven king was at best suspicious of his intentions. It was understandable of course, a strange Redanian stumbling through an active conflict between the Cintrans and the rebels was puzzling at the very least. His thoughts kept circling back to one part of the conversation, the part where he had essentially admitted that no one knew where he was or cared if he returned. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>On one hand, that admission made him look less threatening and suspicious. On the other, he had essentially given the king assurance that no one would come looking for him if he disappeared. Either way, he couldn’t exactly change it now. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Once he had worked his nervous energy out with his pacing, he sat down on his bed, and examined the books Geralt had given him. There were four books in total, all frayed at the edges. Two had damaged spines and a third’s cover had worn nearly smooth, the embossed title no longer legible. The fourth’s cover was fully intact, but the pages were stained around the edges with what appeared to be mud. Clearly these books had been rattling around the bottom of a pack or hastily shoved into a saddlebag, but Jaskier felt a little lightheaded at being given books that clearly had been well loved companions to the slightly closed off witcher. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier pulled the top book off the stack and started reading it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Edible and Medicinal Plants of the Continent </span>
  </em>
  <span>was more of an illustrated field guide than a book, but Jaskier read through it anyways. Several of the plant species in the book were familiar to him, but others were more obscure. Fewer still he had only heard referenced in academic texts, as they no longer grew wild anywhere on the continent, or perhaps more accurately, would no longer grow on the continent several hundred years from now. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He was interrupted slightly before sundown by a nervous young chambermaid carrying an armful of firewood. She smiled tightly as he greeted her and let her into the room, but other than that did not engage him in any way. She pulled a tinderbox out from the folds of her skirt and efficiently built a fire, unloading the armful of additional logs beside the hearth before shuffling out of the room. Jaskier vaguely remembered seeing a few long tapers for lighting candles in one of the drawers. After a few moments of searching he was able to light up a few of the candles around the room, creating enough light to read by.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The next book he picked up surprised him. He expected a bestiary, another field guide, perhaps even a historical treatise. But when the broken spine of the book fell open, he found something entirely different. No this, this, was a romance novel. A thinly veiled one, he could admit, but a romance novel nonetheless. Jaskier flipped through the faded and torn pages, piecing together that the book was a story about a gruff cowherd who saved a young nobleman from bandits. The plot didn’t seem to be anything groundbreaking and the writing style was a bit simplistic, but Jaskier couldn't help but feel like he had been given a precious gift. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier absently rubbed his chest where it ached, briefly feeling the melancholic loneliness of looking up at the stars and wishing to have someone to share them with. Suddenly, the trope of the lone witcher wandering the wilds and hunting monsters with no thanks and no glory felt a little less heroic. The thought of Geralt in the woods at night, with no company but his horse, reading romance novels by firelight made his throat feel a little tight. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He lay back against the pillows and allowed that loneliness to settle in his chest. He was outside of time, prisoner in all but name. No one knew where he was, no one would come looking for him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That night he dreamt he was laying underneath the stars. And if a certain white haired witcher was there too, well that was no one’s business but his. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>----</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Over the next few days, life in Dol Blathanna settled into a predictable rhythm. He would wake, snag some breakfast from the cook, wander the castle, get interrogated over dinner, and then be sent to his room until he fell asleep. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After about a week, Jaskier was ready to throw himself off the northwestern tower. It was the highest, if his count of the stairs in each tower could be trusted, so it seemed a good choice. The only thing that gave him pause was the thought of having to haunt the drafty and crumbling tower for the rest of his days. Not worth the risk if you asked him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>On the eighth day, not that he was counting, he was awoken by a loud knocking on his door and a grunted “get up.” He scrambled to dress, hopping around as he attempted to get his pants up. By the time he got to the door to throw it open, he was out of breath. Geralt looked at him with a single brow raised in the most unimpressed look Jaskier had ever seen. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Good morning Geralt, to what do I owe the pleasure of seeing your grouchy face this morning?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt rolled his eyes and looked Jaskier up and down critically. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How’s your Elder Speech?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier hesitated for a moment, weighing his options. He decided on the truth. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Rusty at best. I can read it, but my accent leaves much to be desired.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’ll have to do” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt stepped back from the threshold of the door, clearly waiting for Jaskier to follow. Jaskier checked his outfit and slipped his key into his pocket just in case. Instead of trailing behind, Jaskier kept pace with Geralt. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Where are we going?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt didn’t reply, continuing to walk at his regular measured pace. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, come on Geralt, don’t be like that.” Jaskier teased him. “Just a hint? A clue? What if I guess and you just tell me if I’m close.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt glared at him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh scary face,” he laughed. “Big, bad scary witcher face. Does that work for you?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “normally”.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier laughed delightedly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, I sense you won’t give in, I will be naught but silent backup” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt laughed, a short thing that seemed to take him by surprise. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll believe that when I see it.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmm, well you might have me there Geralt.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt stopped outside a thick wooden door, pulling a ring of keys out of his pocket and searching for the correct key. He selected a thick iron key with an ornate top and opened the lock with a neat “click”. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He opened the door and held it open invitingly to Jaskier who peered into the room before gasping with a mixture of surprise and delight. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“A library!” he said, scrambling through the doorway and making his way into the room. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The room was large, shelves spanning floor to ceiling with several ladders leaned up against the shelves. There were three windows along the wall, but the drapery was closed tight and a thick layer of dust had settled on the curtains. Jaskier walked over to the windows and grabbed the curtains, turning to look back at Geralt. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“May I?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt nodded and Jaskier wrenched open the curtains of the middle window, flooding the space with light. The sound of the heavy fabric moving caused a bird somewhere in the stacks to fly off. A glance at the fireplace showed a hearth full of bird droppings and nest remnants. The room itself was cluttered and disorganized, stacks of books on the floors as well as the shelves. Several books were laying facedown on the cold stone, spines clearly cracked open and damaged. Jaskier picked up the books nearest his feet, seeing that they were a mix of languages and topics. He placed them on a table that ran most of the length of the room.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Filavandrel wants you to make yourself useful.” Geralt said, wincing slightly at how his words came out.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier smirked at him, and Geralt sighed.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He wants you to restore the library. Make a list of everything you need and someone will bring it to you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not you?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt looked at him, head tilted to the side with a puzzled look on his face. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not me what?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not </span>
  <b>
    <em>you </em>
  </b>
  <span>bringing me the things I need”? Jaskier elaborated.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt looked at him for a moment, expression inscrutable. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m going with the hunting party for a few days. Barnabas-Basil can get you what you need.” </span>
  <span></span>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier scoured his mind for a mention of a “Barnabas-Basil” in his time here, coming up short. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Barnabas-Basil?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The man who’s always following Filavandrel.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Ah, so “Short Bald Man” had a name. Jaskier had never heard anyone refer to the man by name or even really speak to him directly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“When do you leave?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“In an hour.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier nodded and started looking around the space, already mentally tallying up the supplies he might need to get the library back in order. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Best be off then,” Jaskier said distractedly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Geralt walked over to the door, lingering briefly at the threshold. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Jaskier?” he called, barely loud enough to be audible in the cavernous space. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier looked up at him, meeting his eyes. Geralt’s brow was furrowed over his yellow eyes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Be careful” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Before he could ask for clarification, Geralt was gone. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Finally alone in the library, Jaskier felt a spark of curiosity and excitement being fanned into a small flame. He was standing in a treasure trove of information and stories that might never have been seen by contemporary scholars. He had free rein to read and catalogue to his heart’s content. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He walked around the space, picking up any books that had fallen or been strewn across the floor. He brought them back to the table, figuring he might as well start somewhere. The top book on the stack was</span>
  <em>
    <span> Fairy Stories and Folklore</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he briefly leafed through it, nearly dropping it in  shock as he came across a diagram of the standing stones. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The story took a little longer to decipher as Jaskier brushed some of the mental cobwebs off his Elder Speech. It seemed to be the same story the woman at Belleteyn had been telling. A woman who traveled through the stones on Saovine to escape her boring life. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But this book had something that other stories had lacked. An ending.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier could go home.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Call me Tinkerbell because I live on your attention</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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